male weight gain - bearded - bear tf - hairy
The forest stretched endlessly around them, dense and alive, the kind of place where the outside world felt like a distant rumor.
Julien adjusted the straps of his backpack, breathing in deeply.
“God, I needed this,” he said, glancing up at the canopy where sunlight filtered through layers of green. “No noise, no emails, no people.”
Marc smirked behind him, stepping over a root with easy confidence.
“You say that now. Give it twelve hours before you start missing your coffee machine.”
Julien laughed.
“I brought coffee.”
Marc raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah? That powdered camping garbage doesn’t count.”
They kept walking, their pace light, practiced. Their movements had an effortless coordination—two bodies used to activity, to control. Their clothes fit them perfectly: slim hiking pants, breathable jackets, shirts clinging just enough to hint at their lean builds. Clean lines. Sharp silhouettes. Nothing excessive.
They looked like men passing through the forest.
Marc pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen, then scoffed.
“No signal. Officially off-grid.”
“Good,” Julien replied. “That’s the point.”
A distant rumble rolled across the sky.
Marc looked up first.
“Was that thunder?”
Julien frowned slightly, scanning the patches of sky visible through the trees. The light had shifted—subtly, but enough. The gold had dulled into something grayer.
“Probably just passing,” he said. “Forecast didn’t mention anything serious.”
Another rumble. Louder this time.
Marc exhaled through his nose.
“Of course it didn’t.”
The wind picked up—not strong, but sudden. Leaves shivered. Branches creaked.
Julien tightened his jacket.
“Let’s keep moving. Campsite should be… what, another hour?”
“Yeah, if we don’t get lost,” Marc replied, though his tone was still light.
The first drop hit Julien’s arm—cold and heavy. He stopped. Another drop. Then three. Then ten. And suddenly— Rain. Not a drizzle. Not a warning. A wall.
“Okay—shit,” Marc muttered, already pulling his hood up. “That escalated fast.”
Within seconds, they were soaked. Their clothes clung to them, outlining every line of their bodies, turning light fabric into weight. The trail beneath their feet darkened, softened.
Julien wiped water from his face, blinking against it.
“We need shelter.”
“No kidding,” Marc snapped, though there was no real irritation—just urgency.
They stepped off the trail, instinctively moving closer together as visibility dropped. The forest changed under the rain. Sounds dulled, then amplified. The air thickened. Every direction began to look the same.
“Do you remember seeing anything back there?” Julien called over the downpour.
Marc shook his head, water dripping from his jaw.
“No. Just trees and more trees.”
Lightning split the sky—brief, blinding.
A second later, thunder cracked so loudly it seemed to shake the ground beneath them.
Julien flinched despite himself.
“Okay, yeah, this is not ‘passing.’”
The rain intensified further, if that was even possible. It soaked through layers, through skin, chilling and heavy at the same time.
Marc squinted ahead, wiping his eyes again.
“Wait—there!”
Through the curtain of rain, barely visible between the trees—
A shape. Angular. Still. Man-made.
Julien followed his gaze.
“Is that…?”
“Cabin,” Marc said, already moving. “Has to be.”
They pushed forward, slipping slightly on wet ground, branches snagging at their clothes. The structure grew clearer with each step—a small, weathered cabin, half-hidden by the forest, its wood darkened with age and rain.
Julien let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Marc reached the door first, grabbing the handle.
“Please don’t be locked.”
They both froze for a fraction of a second, standing on the threshold, rain pouring behind them, the interior dim and still.
Julien glanced at Marc.
“Well?”
Marc gave a short shrug.
“Better than drowning out here.”
Another crack of thunder decided it for them.
They stepped inside, pulling the door shut against the storm.
Immediately, the sound of rain softened—still loud, but distant now. Contained.
The air inside was different. Warmer than expected. Heavy. Still.
Julien ran a hand through his soaked hair, water dripping onto the wooden floor.
“Okay… that’s… lucky.”
Marc leaned back against the door, catching his breath.
“Yeah. Real lucky.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, the storm raged. Inside, the cabin waited. The door shut with a dull thud behind them. For a moment, neither Julien nor Marc moved.
The storm still roared outside—rain hammering against the wood, wind pressing insistently against the walls—but inside, everything felt… muted. Contained. Almost insulated from the chaos beyond.
Julien exhaled slowly, wiping water from his face again.
“Okay… we’re good. We’re good.”
Marc nodded, though his eyes were already scanning the room.
“Yeah. Yeah, this is… actually not bad.”
The cabin was small, but solid. A single main room. Rough wooden walls darkened by time, a stone hearth long gone cold, a heavy table near the center, and a narrow bed against one wall. Everything looked old, worn—but maintained, in a strange way. Not abandoned. Just… waiting.
Julien shifted uncomfortably, his soaked shirt clinging to his skin.
“God, I’m freezing.”
“Same,” Marc said quickly. He pulled at his sleeve, grimacing at the way the fabric stuck. “We need to get out of these.”
Julien nodded toward a set of hooks near the wall.
“Looks like someone left stuff here.”
Hanging there were several pieces of clothing—thick flannel shirts, heavy wool pants, suspenders. All of it oversized. Rough. The kind of clothes made for long days of labor, not weekend hikes.
Marc let out a short laugh.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. We go from Decathlon to full-on lumberjack?”
Julien smirked faintly.
“Better than hypothermia.”
Marc grabbed one of the shirts, holding it up.
“This thing’s huge.”
“Yeah, well,” Julien said, already pulling off his wet jacket, “we’re not exactly in a position to be picky.”
They stripped quickly, more out of necessity than comfort. Wet fabric peeled away from their bodies, hitting the wooden floor with soft, heavy sounds. The air against their skin felt warmer than expected—not cozy, but not cold either. Just… present.
Marc paused briefly as he pulled his shirt over his head, running a hand across his arm.
Julien glanced over, halfway through changing.
“What?”
Marc frowned, flexing his fingers slightly.
“I don’t know. Just—” He shrugged. “Feels like the air’s warmer than it should be.”
Julien exhaled through his nose.
“Yeah, I thought that too. Cabin’s probably insulated or something.”
Marc didn’t sound entirely convinced—but he dropped it.
They pulled on the clothes.
The fabric was coarse, heavier than anything they were used to. Julien slipped into a thick flannel shirt, the sleeves hanging past his wrists, the shoulders loose. The pants bunched slightly at his waist even when tied.
Marc buttoned his own shirt, shaking his head with a grin.
“Okay, yeah—this is ridiculous.”
Julien chuckled, rolling his sleeves.
“We look like we’re about to chop wood.”
Marc glanced down at himself. Then paused.
Julien noticed the shift.
“What?”
Marc tugged lightly at the front of his shirt.
“It’s just—” He hesitated. “It doesn’t feel as loose as it should.”
Julien raised an eyebrow.
“What, you shrink in the rain?”
Marc smirked faintly.
“Very funny.”
But he looked down again.
The fabric still hung on him—but maybe not as dramatically as it had a moment before.
Julien adjusted his own shirt, then stilled.
There was a subtle difference. Hard to define.
The weight of the fabric on his shoulders felt… different. Not heavier exactly—but more present. Like it had settled into place rather than draping loosely.He flexed his hand unconsciously, then pressed his palm briefly against his side. Warm. Warmer than it should have been.
“…You feel that?” he asked.
Marc glanced up.
“Feel what?”
Julien hesitated, searching for the right words.
“I don’t know. Just… warmer. Like—” He shook his head. “Like my body’s holding heat or something.”
Marc shrugged, walking past him toward the center of the room.
“We were just out in a storm. Bodies do weird things.”
“Yeah,” Julien said quietly. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”
Marc dropped into one of the chairs near the table. The wood creaked slightly under his weight.
“…Did that always do that?”
Julien looked over.
“Do what?”
“The chair,” Marc said, shifting slightly. Another creak. “Feels like it’s… I don’t know. Lighter or something.”
Julien stepped closer, resting a hand on the back of another chair. It felt solid. Normal.
He pushed it slightly.
“It’s fine.”
Marc let out a breath, rubbing his face.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just tired.”
Julien nodded slowly, though his gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary.
Outside, the storm showed no sign of stopping.
Inside, the cabin settled around them.
And beneath the warmth of dry clothes and the illusion of safety, something—subtle, quiet, undeniable—had already begun to shift.
Time lost its shape inside the cabin.
Minutes stretched. Or maybe it was hours.
The storm never let up. Rain battered the roof in steady waves, sometimes soft, sometimes violent, as if something outside was testing the limits of the walls. The light beyond the window had dulled into a permanent gray, making it impossible to tell how much of the day had passed.
Inside, the air remained warm.
Julien shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders slowly. The flannel clung differently now—not tight, not restrictive, but… settled. As if it belonged where it rested.
He frowned slightly and tugged at the fabric near his chest.
It didn’t fall away like before.
Across from him, Marc exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
Julien looked up.
“What?”
Marc was staring at his own arm.
Marc raised his forearm slightly, turning it toward the light.
A faint shadow darkened the skin—not just stubble, but more than that. Thicker. Denser. Not fully grown, but wrong for the span of a few hours.
Julien leaned forward, squinting.
Marc let out a dry laugh.
“Huh? That’s your reaction?”
Julien hesitated.
“It’s probably just the lighting.”
“…Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, okay. Lighting.”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
A low crack of thunder rolled overhead.
Julien shifted again, this time leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The movement felt… heavier than it should have been. Subtle, but there.
Then pushed himself upright again, more deliberately.
“Yeah,” Julien said quickly. Too quickly.
“Just stiff.”
Marc nodded, but his eyes lingered.
Silence settled between them again—thick, almost tangible.
Julien’s gaze drifted toward the small mirror fixed to the wall near the bed.
He stood, almost without thinking, and walked toward it.
The man staring back at him looked like him.
Same face. Same features.
There was something in the lines of his jaw. Not different, exactly. Just… fuller. Softer around the edges. His cheeks carried a faint weight that hadn’t been there that morning.
He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb along his jawline.
He had shaved. Carefully. Smooth skin.
But the beginning of one.
Behind him, Marc let out a short, humorless chuckle.
“Okay, yeah, no. This is—this is bullshit.”
Marc was on his feet now, pacing once across the room before stopping abruptly.
“This is just… what, some kind of reaction?” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Humidity, stress, I don’t know—people hallucinate weird stuff all the time.”
Julien watched him, saying nothing.
Marc kept going, faster now.
“We’ve been hiking all day, we get caught in a storm, adrenaline spikes—body does weird things. That’s it.”
Julien glanced down briefly at Marc’s shirt.
It fit him differently now.
The shoulders filled it more. The fabric rested against his chest instead of hanging loose.
Marc followed his gaze—and immediately crossed his arms.
Julien shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Marc looked down sharply. For a second— Just a second— Something flickered across his face. Then he scoffed, loud and forced.
“Oh, come on. You think I just—what, grew into it in two hours?”
Marc ran both hands over his face, exhaling hard.
“This is stupid,” he muttered. “We’re tired. That’s all.”
He dropped back into the chair. It creaked again. Louder this time. Marc froze. Slowly, he shifted his weight. Another creak. He looked up at Julien, something uncertain breaking through his expression.
“…That didn’t do that before.”
Julien didn’t reply. He was too busy noticing his own breathing. Deeper. Heavier. His chest rising more slowly under the flannel, the fabric moving with a weight that hadn’t been there earlier.
He pressed his hand lightly against his side again. Still warm. Warmer. And now— Softer. He pulled his hand away. Marc leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
“This is just in our heads,” he said quietly.
“It has to be.”
Julien looked at him. Then, slowly, back at the mirror. The man reflected there hadn’t changed completely. Not yet. But the difference was no longer something he could ignore. Subtle. Quiet. Undeniable. And outside— the storm kept raging.
If anything, it grew louder—as if it had been waiting.
Inside the cabin, something shifted with it. Not subtle anymore. Not quiet. Marc stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor.
Julien looked up, startled by the tone. Marc was breathing faster now, his chest rising heavily beneath the flannel. The fabric—once loose—stretched faintly across his torso, clinging in places it hadn’t before.
“This isn’t normal,” Marc said, voice tight. “This isn’t—this isn’t just stress or whatever you think it is.”
Marc let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Right. You just… what? Accept it?”
Julien hesitated. That was the problem. He didn’t have an answer. Another crack of thunder shook the cabin, the walls groaning softly in response. Marc ran both hands through his hair—then stopped.
His fingers lingered at the top of his head. Something… different. He pressed down slightly, as if testing it. Less density. Less resistance. His jaw tightened.
Julien took a step toward him.
“Marc—”
“Don’t,” Marc snapped, backing away. “Don’t say my name like that.”
Marc’s breathing was louder now. Rougher. His face—fuller, undeniably—was flushed, whether from heat or panic, it was impossible to tell. The beginnings of a beard darkened his jaw, no longer subtle, no longer deniable.
“This place—” Marc gestured wildly around them. “There’s something wrong with this place.”
Julien glanced instinctively at the walls, the low ceiling, the hanging clothes. The warmth. The stillness. The way everything felt… settled.
“…Maybe,” he admitted quietly.
“I’m just saying—we don’t know what’s happening.”
“Exactly,” Marc shot back. “So we leave.”
Julien shook his head slowly.
“In this?” he said, gesturing toward the door as the wind howled outside. “You won’t make it ten minutes.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
Marc stepped closer now, his presence suddenly… larger. Not just emotionally—physically. His shoulders filled the space between them, his frame heavier, grounded in a way that hadn’t been there before.
“Thinking clearly?” Marc repeated. “You’re the one standing here like this is fine.”
Julien felt it then. Not just the heat. Not just the weight. But something deeper. A pull. Subtle, but steady. As if the cabin itself was asking him to stay.
“I’m not saying it’s fine,” Julien said carefully. “I’m saying running out there won’t fix it.”
Marc shook his head, stepping back again.
Julien’s voice softened.
“Then explain it to me.”
Marc opened his mouth— And stopped. Because he couldn’t. Because there were no words for what was happening to them. Only the feeling. The change. The loss of something familiar, slipping further away with every passing minute.
“I’m not staying here,” Marc said finally.
Julien’s chest tightened.
But Marc was already moving. He grabbed his pack from the floor, fumbling slightly with the straps—his hands less precise than before, thicker somehow. He shrugged it on anyway, ignoring the way it sat awkwardly against his broader back.
Julien stepped forward.
“Wait—at least let the storm pass.”
Marc moved to the door. His hand hovered on the handle for a fraction of a second. Then he turned back. For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression.
“…You’re coming?” he asked.
Julien didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Marc. Really looked. At the heavier line of his jaw. At the way his shirt now fit like it had been made for him. At the presence he carried—solid, undeniable.
Then he glanced around the cabin. The warmth. The stillness. The strange, growing sense of… belonging. He shook his head.
“…I think we’re safer here.”
Marc stared at him. Disbelief. Then anger.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
He yanked the door open. The storm exploded inward—wind, rain, cold slamming into the warm space like a living thing. For a second, Marc hesitated on the threshold.
Then— He stepped out. The door slammed shut behind him. Julien flinched. Silence rushed back in, broken only by the muffled violence of the storm outside. He stood there, unmoving. Listening. Waiting for the sound of footsteps. A voice. Anything. But there was nothing. Only the storm. And the cabin. Holding him.
The storm swallowed Marc almost immediately. The moment he stepped beyond the threshold, the warmth vanished—ripped away by cold rain and violent wind. It hit him like a wall. His breath caught in his throat as water soaked through him in seconds, clinging to his already heavy clothes.
The word was torn from his mouth, carried off into the storm. He pushed forward anyway. One step. Then another. The forest had changed. What had felt open, almost inviting before was now dense, shifting, hostile. The trees blurred together under sheets of rain. The ground, once firm, had turned slick and uneven beneath his boots.
Marc wiped his face, but it didn’t help. Water kept pouring into his eyes.
“Just keep moving,” he muttered to himself. “Just… get out.”
But out of what? He didn’t even know which direction he had come from anymore. A branch caught his shoulder—harder than expected. He stumbled, barely catching himself. His balance felt… off. His body didn’t respond the way it should have. Slower. Heavier.
His breath came faster now. Too fast. His chest heaved under the soaked flannel, the fabric clinging tightly to him. His stomach—he felt it with every step now—shifted, pulled downward with a weight that hadn’t existed hours ago.
“No,” he said under his breath. “No, this is—this is nothing.”
He kept walking. Or tried to. The ground gave way beneath his foot. Marc slipped. Hard.
He hit the forest floor with a wet, heavy thud, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Rain hammered against him, cold and relentless. Mud seeped into his clothes, into his skin.
He groaned, trying to push himself up. His arms trembled. Failed.
“…Come on,” he muttered, voice weak now.
He rolled slightly onto his side, grimacing as pain flared through his leg. Something wasn’t right. Not just the fall. His body— It felt wrong. Too heavy to lift. Too slow to obey. His head spun. The forest tilted. The storm roared louder.
Inside the cabin, Julien stood near the door, unmoving. He had tried not to think about it. Tried to convince himself that Marc would come back. That he’d realize it was too dangerous, that the storm would force him to return.
But the minutes passed. Too many. And the silence— No footsteps. No voice. Nothing. Julien exhaled slowly, his hand tightening unconsciously at his side.
He grabbed his jacket. It felt tighter than before. He ignored it.
The moment he opened the door, the cold hit him—but it didn’t bite as sharply as he expected. His body held the warmth longer now, like it refused to let it go.
Still— The storm was brutal.
“Marc!” he shouted into the rain.
No answer. Julien stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him, and moved into the forest. Each step was deliberate. Grounded. Heavy. Branches scraped against his arms, but he barely felt them. His focus narrowed, cutting through the chaos of the storm.
Then— Something. Not a voice. A shape. Half-hidden against the ground. Julien moved faster. And then he saw him. Marc lay sprawled in the mud, motionless, his body partially turned to the side. Rain soaked him completely, his clothes plastered against him, outlining a form that had changed far beyond anything Julien could deny now.
Julien dropped to his knees beside him, grabbing his shoulder. No response.
His face— Fuller. Heavier. His beard now unmistakable, dark against his skin. Julien swallowed hard.
He shook him again. Nothing. But he was breathing. Slow. Deep. Julien exhaled in relief.
He slid an arm under Marc’s shoulders, trying to lift him. And froze.
Not just dead weight—real weight. Solid. Dense.
Julien adjusted his grip, straining slightly as he pulled him upright. Marc’s body sagged against him, unresponsive.
“Come on,” Julien muttered. “Come on, man…”
He got him to his feet—barely. Marc slumped immediately against him, his full weight pressing down. Julien staggered, then steadied himself. Step by step. Slow. Difficult. But steady.
The forest seemed longer on the way back. Or maybe it was just the weight.
Julien’s breathing deepened, his chest rising heavily under the flannel as he pushed forward, dragging, supporting, carrying.
By the time the cabin came into view, his muscles burned—but not in the way he expected. There was strength there now. Endurance. Something grounded.
Something that held. He reached the door, shoved it open, and guided Marc inside. The warmth rushed over them again.
Julien lowered him carefully onto the bed. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, rain dripping from his clothes onto the wooden floor. Then he moved. Quick. Efficient. He pulled Marc’s boots off first, then his soaked pants, peeling the heavy fabric away. The flannel shirt followed, clinging stubbornly before finally giving way.
Julien paused. Just for a second. Marc’s body— There was no denying it now.
Broader. Heavier. Covered in thickening hair across his chest and stomach. His torso rose and fell slowly, solid, grounded in a way that felt almost… immovable.
Julien swallowed. Then grabbed a dry blanket and pulled it over him.
“Yeah…” he murmured quietly. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He sat back slightly, watching him. Outside, the storm still raged. But inside— Marc was breathing. And Julien, for the first time since he had left— wasn’t alone anymore.
Marc woke slowly. Not all at once—but in fragments. First, the weight. A deep, crushing heaviness pressing him into the mattress, like his body had sunk into something that refused to let him rise. Then the warmth—thick, enveloping, almost suffocating.
His breath came in low, slow pulls. Too slow. His chest rose… and fell… heavy beneath the blanket. Then came the ache. Dull. Everywhere. Not sharp pain—something broader. Like his entire body had been strained beyond what it was meant to carry.
His eyes opened. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Wooden. Dark. Still. The cabin. Memory came back in pieces.
The storm. The argument. The forest— Marc inhaled sharply and tried to sit up. Bad idea. His body resisted. Not just from weakness—but from weight.
The sound that left his throat was deeper than he expected. Rougher. He pushed again, slower this time, bracing his arms against the bed. They trembled. Thicker. He froze. His gaze dropped. His hands.
Broad. Heavy. The fingers thicker, the veins less defined beneath a layer of something softer.
The word barely escaped. He forced himself upright. And immediately felt it. His stomach.It shifted as he moved—pulled downward with a weight that made his breath hitch. It rested heavily against his thighs as he leaned forward, undeniable, impossible to ignore.
Marc stared at it. Then touched it. Slowly. The flesh yielded under his palm.
“…No,” he said again, louder this time.
A chair creaked somewhere in the room. Marc’s head snapped up. Julien. Sitting across from him. Watching. Marc blinked.
Once. Twice. And for a second— His brain refused to process what he was seeing.
The voice that answered was calm.
But the man— The man was not the one he had left.Julien sat heavily in the chair, his posture relaxed, grounded. His frame had expanded—broad shoulders filling the flannel, his chest thick, his stomach resting naturally beneath it. His arms were larger, covered in dense hair that caught the low light of the cabin.
His face— Fuller. Bearded. A thick, dark beard covering his jaw, blending into heavier features that gave him a presence Marc had never seen before.
And his hair— Thinner at the top. Noticeably so. Marc stared.
Julien didn’t react immediately. He just held his gaze.
“I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
Marc shook his head, backing slightly against the wall behind the bed.
“No—no, that’s not—what the fuck happened to you?”
“…Same thing that happened to you.”
Marc let out a broken laugh.
“Yeah? Yeah, okay—good one.”
He looked down again. At his body. The size of it. The weight. The hair across his chest, thick and dark, rising and falling with each heavy breath. His hands—still resting on his stomach—barely spanning its width. His throat tightened.
“This isn’t real,” he said quickly. “This is—this is some kind of—of—”
He pushed himself to his feet. Or tried to. The movement was clumsy, unbalanced. His center of gravity had changed. His body didn’t move the way he expected—it lagged, shifted, pulled. But he managed. Barely.
“Mirror,” he muttered. “I need to—”
Julien didn’t stop him. Didn’t move. He just watched. Marc crossed the room in uneven steps, each one heavier than the last, until he reached the small mirror fixed to the wall. And looked.For a moment— Nothing.His mind refused to connect what he was seeing.
The man in the reflection—He was large. Obese.
His face round, cheeks heavy, jaw softened beneath a dense beard that fully covered his lower face. His neck thicker, blending into his shoulders.
His eyes— Wide. Panicked. Familiar. Marc’s breath caught.
He leaned closer. The mirror didn’t change.
He touched his face. The reflection followed. The beard scratched under his fingers. Real. He grabbed the edge of the mirror, gripping it tightly.
“No—no, no, no—this isn’t—this isn’t possible—”
His voice cracked. Behind him, Julien spoke quietly.
“How are you so calm?!” he snapped. “Look at you! Look at—this—” he gestured wildly between them “—this isn’t normal!”
“Then why aren’t you freaking out?!”
A pause. Julien leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight—but holding.
“…Because it’s not stopping,” he said simply.
Marc froze. Julien’s eyes dropped briefly—to his own body, then back to Marc.
“It didn’t stop when you left. It didn’t stop when I stayed.”
Marc shook his head, backing away again.
“No. No, we just—we just need to get out of here.”
Julien didn’t answer. Marc’s breathing quickened. His chest rose faster now, his body moving with a heavy, visible effort.
“We leave,” Marc insisted. “We go back. We find someone. A hospital, a—something—this can be fixed.”
Julien watched him. Long. Quiet.
Marc opened his mouth. Stopped. Because he didn’t know. Because deep down— He already felt it. This wasn’t something external. It wasn’t something on them. It was in them. Marc looked back at the mirror. At the man staring back. And for the first time— The panic didn’t disappear. But it shifted. Into something heavier. Something harder to escape.
Outside, the storm had begun to fade. But inside—there was no going back.
Marc stumbled back from the mirror. One step. Then another. As if distance alone could undo what he haseen.
His voice came out strained, uneven. His chest rose faster now, dragging air in heavy, audible pulls. The movement made everything worse—his body moved with him, responded with weight, with presence.
There was no separation. He shook his head violently.
Behind him, Julien didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Marc kept backing up until the edge of the bed hit behind his knees. He dropped onto it heavily, the wood creaking under him. His hands went to his head, fingers digging into his scalp—
Then stopping. Again. That same spot. Less hair. More skin. He let out a broken sound, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
He pushed himself up again, restless, agitated, pacing now—but the pacing was wrong. Slower. Each step deliberate, weighted. His body resisted speed, resisted urgency.
It imposed something else.
“Say something!” he snapped suddenly, turning toward Julien. “You’re just sitting there—say something!”
Julien met his gaze. Calm. Grounded.
“I don’t think fighting it is helping,” he said quietly.
Marc stared at him in disbelief.
“Fighting it?” he repeated. “You think this is something you just—accept?”
Julien’s eyes flicked briefly over Marc’s body. Not judgmental. Not shocked. Observing.
“It’s already happened,” he said.
Marc’s voice cracked again, louder this time, filling the cabin.
Julien leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs. The movement was slow, controlled. Natural.
“You felt it out there, didn’t you?” he said. “Your body not responding the same way. Heavier. Slower.”
Marc didn’t reply. Because he had. Because he still felt it. Julien continued.
“It didn’t feel like something being done to you,” he added. “It felt like… something settling.”
Marc shook his head violently.
“No. No, that’s not—don’t twist it like that.”
But his voice had lost strength. Julien stood up. The shift was subtle—but it filled the room. He wasn’t just bigger. He occupied space differently now. Stable. Rooted.
Marc’s eyes flicked over him again despite himself—the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched naturally across his chest and stomach, the quiet confidence in how he moved.
Julien took a step closer. Marc instinctively tensed.
Julien stopped. Held his hands open, non-threatening.
“I’m not saying it’s normal,” he said. “I’m saying… it’s real.”
Marc let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling heavily.
Silence stretched between them again.
The storm outside had softened now—rain still falling, but no longer violent. Just steady. Persistent. Marc’s gaze drifted back toward the mirror. Then away. Then back again. He hesitated. And this time— He didn’t rush. He stepped closer. Slowly. Like approaching something dangerous. Or inevitable. He stopped in front of it.
The man in the reflection didn’t change. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t give him an escape. Marc exhaled shakily. His hand lifted again—almost automatically—and rested on his stomach.
It shifted slightly under his palm. Heavy. Warm. Present. His fingers pressed in. The flesh yielded. He swallowed.
“…It doesn’t feel wrong,” he whispered.
Julien didn’t answer. Marc’s brow furrowed, confused by his own words.
“I mean—” he tried again, voice unsteady “—it’s not… what I was. But it—”
He stopped. Because he didn’t have the words. Because what he was feeling wasn’t panic anymore. Not entirely.Something else had slipped in. Something quieter. Julien spoke softly behind him.
Marc’s eyes closed briefly. Then opened again. Still staring at himself.
The word barely audible. But real. Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside— the cabin held them. Not as intruders anymore. But as something that belonged. Silence settled again in the cabin. But it wasn’t the same silence as before. Something had shifted.
Marc’s hand still rested on his stomach, fingers slowly pressing, exploring the weight, the warmth… the presence. His breathing steadied, no longer panicked—just deep, heavy.
Across the room, Julien watched him. Not with concern anymore. With something softer.
“Feels different, doesn’t it?” Julien said quietly.
Marc didn’t answer immediately. His thumb moved slowly across his skin, feeling the texture, the thickness, the unfamiliar density that now felt… consistent.
He lifted his gaze. And this time, when he looked at Julien— He didn’t recoil. He observed. Really observed. The breadth of his shoulders. The way the flannel stretched across his chest. The weight of his stomach resting naturally as he sat. The beard—full, dense, framing his face in a way that made him look… older, yes—but also stronger. More present. Marc swallowed.
“You don’t look…” he hesitated, searching for the word.
“…wrong.”
Julien’s brow lifted slightly.
Marc shook his head slowly.
He stood up again, more carefully this time. His movements were still heavy—but no longer resisted. He crossed the room, each step grounded, deliberate.
When he stopped in front of Julien, the difference in their bodies was undeniable. And yet— It didn’t feel like distance anymore. Marc hesitated. Then, almost instinctively, he reached out. His hand pressed lightly against Julien’s chest. Warm. Firm beneath the softness. Julien didn’t move away. Marc’s fingers shifted slightly, testing the weight there, the thickness.
“…You’re solid,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Julien let out a quiet breath.
Marc huffed a faint, surprised laugh.
Julien’s hand lifted in return, slower, giving Marc time to pull back. He didn’t. The contact came to rest at Marc’s side—then lower, at the curve of his waist, where the weight of his body settled naturally. Marc tensed— Then didn’t. Julien’s thumb moved slightly, not exploring, just… acknowledging. Present. Marc exhaled.
Julien’s lips curved faintly.
Marc met his gaze again. Something unspoken passed between them. Recognition. Not of who they had been— But of what they were now. Closer. Heavier. Real in a different way. Marc’s hand shifted, gripping lightly at Julien’s shirt now, feeling the fabric stretch over him.
“You fill this out better than I did,” he muttered.
Julien let out a low chuckle.
Marc shook his head, but he was smiling now. Slightly. Uncertain—but real. Their proximity lingered. Neither stepping away. Neither rushing. Just standing there, bodies close, breathing slow and deep, the warmth of the cabin surrounding them. Marc’s gaze dropped briefly—to Julien’s beard. Then back up.
“…It suits you,” he said.
Julien tilted his head slightly.
A pause. Then— Marc closed the distance. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just… certain. Their foreheads brushed first.
Then, slowly— They kissed.
It wasn’t sharp or urgent. It was heavy. Grounded. Like everything else they had become. Time seemed to stretch again. But differently now. Outside, the storm had faded. The rain had stopped. The forest had gone still. But inside— Neither of them noticed. The cabin held them. And for the first time— they weren’t resisting it anymore.
